Let me
not to the marriage of true minds

Admit
impediments. Love is not love

Which
alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends
with the remover to remove.

O no, it
is an ever-fixèd mark

That
looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the
star to every wand’ring bark,

Whose
worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s
not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within
his bending sickle’s compass come;

Love
alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears
it out even to the edge of doom.

If this
be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.